


Boxers

by silver_etoile



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: M/M, Secret Relationship, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 17:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_etoile/pseuds/silver_etoile
Summary: It’s the boxers, Elia decides, as he sinks down on top of Filippo, pushes him into the cushions, exhales on a sigh as Filippo presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down his throat. It’s finding Filippo sitting on the couch at midnight eating marshmallow cereal, wearing only a pair of boxers patterned with tiny pink flamingos.





	Boxers

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://azozzoni.tumblr.com).

It’s the boxers, Elia decides, as he sinks down on top of Filippo, pushes him into the cushions, exhales on a sigh as Filippo presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down his throat. It’s finding Filippo sitting on the couch at midnight eating marshmallow cereal, wearing only a pair of boxers patterned with tiny pink flamingos. 

Filippo tastes like sugar with his tongue in Elia’s mouth, lips dragging together, a sharp nip of teeth that makes Elia groan. He tastes like sugar and his hands are all over Elia, fingernails digging almost painfully into Elia’s back, hips pushing up into Elia’s until Elia’s head swims and all he can think about is coming, shuddering against Filippo’s body. 

“Fuck, Filo, _Filo_ ,” Elia gasps against Filippo’s cheek, skin damp with sweat, fingers rough against Filippo’s scalp, and he comes almost the minute Filippo’s hand slides into his jeans. 

Definitely the boxers. 

*

Maybe it’s not just that, Elia thinks when Filippo shows up at the bar with Eleonora and slides into the chair next to Elia, a touch too close, a little too friendly when he leans around Elia to talk to Martino. 

Elia’s heart beats in his throat even when Filippo doesn’t look at him, barely even acknowledges him. He catches Filippo’s teeth closing over his lip ring, out of the corner of his eye, and he has to excuse himself, hurry away from the table where Martino calls after him to get another round. 

He’s not going to jerk off in a public bathroom, but he can hide, just for a moment. Just until the heat rushing to his cock subsides and he can act like a normal person again with Filippo sitting next to him. 

When the door opens behind him, he whips around to face Filippo’s knowing smirk as he holds the door shut behind him.

“You’re the worst,” Elia says, grabbing Filippo by his shirt tails and dragging him into a kiss, chasing away any trace of a smirk as he slides to his knees. 

If anyone notices that they don’t come back for ten minutes, they don’t say anything. 

*

It’s got to be more than the boxers because the boxers aren’t even on, tossed carelessly aside on Filippo’s growing pile of clothes, right next to Elia’s jacket and jeans and shoes. 

It’s more than that because Elia’s pulse is racing under Filippo’s thumb, pressing a bruise to his throat as Elia leans into him, hands on Filippo’s shoulders, holding him to the mattress. 

“You don’t deserve this,” Elia says as their hips rock together, cock unbearably hard already. 

“Nobody deserves anything,” Filippo replies, biting Elia’s collarbone, drinking in his hiss. 

“Shit,” Elia breathes, this close to coming, fingers shaky as he pushes them into Filippo’s hair, draws his mouth closer and kisses him.

Filippo’s hands land on his ass, pulling him in tighter, making things hotter, faster. He swears his body convulses when Filippo’s cock glides against his.

“I’m gonna come,” he mumbles into Filippo’s mouth, around his tongue.

“Not yet,” Filippo says, and Elia groans, his whole body throbbing when Filippo breaks away and grabs a condom from the table.

When he does finally come, it’s with Filippo’s name on his lips and his boxers on the floor. 

*

Elia doesn’t usually stay. He picks up his shoes, shimmies on his jeans, and pulls on his shirt on the way out. He doesn’t lay around in Filippo’s bed, staring at the picture of Tom Hardy over the headboard.

He doesn’t share a cigarette, lying on his back, an arm flung across the mattress, Filippo next to him scrolling through his phone. 

“You haven’t told anyone,” he says, and it’s not exactly a question.

Filippo glances at him, sideways. “Why?”

Elia shrugs, breathing in the cigarette smoke burning his lungs. “Do you want to tell anyone?”

“I don’t have anyone to tell.”

He has a point. Elia frowns.

The cigarette burns down to his fingertips and he smushes it in the ashtray, unable to stop the way he glances at Filippo, not sure what he’s hoping to see.

Filippo sighs, licks his lips, tilts his head toward Elia. 

“Do you want to tell anyone?”

Elia doesn’t actually have an answer and Filippo seems to know, tossing his phone aside and rolling on top of Elia. 

Elia doesn’t fight him, weighed down by his body, a deep pressure on his chest that makes it hard to breathe. His eyes scrape over Filippo’s lips, soft and pink, the rough stubble on his cheeks that doesn’t match his pastel hair.

“What’s to tell?” Filippo asks, dark eyes on Elia’s, darting to his lips and back up. 

What is there to tell? Elia wonders as he takes a deep breath, chest rising under Filippo’s, and he doesn’t try to think a second later with Filippo’s mouth hot against his throat instead. 

*

The room sways, awash in blue lights, the throbbing beat of music rattling inside his chest as he dances, jumps around in a crowd of flushed, sweaty teenagers. He’s got his hands on girls, touching their hips, brushing their waists, watching the way they toss their hair over their shoulders and bat their long eyelashes at him. 

The room tilts on its axis and Elia stumbles, into Gio, who hauls him upright, shouting something he can’t make out.

Every step makes him dizzy, a struggle to focus even as hands grip his waist and drag him away from the music, away from the buzzing of the bass line, the way it rattles the paintings on the wall. 

The night air hits him in the face, not quite cool enough to bring him back into focus. 

“Time to get you home.” It’s Gio’s voice in his ear, Gio’s warm hand tucked around his waist, Elia’s arm slung around his shoulder.

“What’s there to tell?” Elia slurs, bumping into Gio as they walk, down an empty sidewalk, through puddles of orange street lamps. 

“I don’t know,” Gio says. “What is there to tell?”

For a second, Elia contemplates the question, the answer, what answer he even wants.

“Nothing,” he says after a minute, slumping against Gio and heading into the night. 

*

It’s long, slow kisses that stir the butterflies in Elia’s stomach, a flush crawling up his neck as Filippo’s tongue slides into his mouth, exploring every inch until he feels like he can’t breathe and has to pull away. 

Filippo’s eyes rest on his lips, gently parted, thumb stroking Elia’s cheek before gripping the back of his neck.

It’s a somersault when Filippo swallows, eyes flicking up to check, just for a second, that Elia is still with him.

“Fuck, Filo,” Elia whispers against his skin, the scrape of stubble along his jaw, and he shudders.

His lips are sore—pink and puffy and tingling—but _god_ , he wants more. 

“I want to tell them,” Elia says, breathes the words against Filippo’s jaw line, peppering kisses underneath. 

“Who?” Filippo asks, fingers in Elia’s hair, tilting his head back so he can place a barely-there kiss to the corner of Elia’s mouth. 

“Everyone.”

He expects Filippo to pause, to let his hand drop from his hair, to contemplate the word as Elia’s heart beats a feverish rhythm in his chest. He expects a “why?” as Filippo frowns at him and his stomach drops.

He doesn’t expect Filippo to nudge his knee in between Elia’s legs, easing into his erection, and jerk his head.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Elia swallows, checks Filippo’s face, but there’s no sign of a joke. Just a tiny smile as he gazes down at Elia squished on the couch beneath him.

“It was the boxers, wasn’t it?” Filippo asks, kissing Elia’s bottom lip, and Elia shakes his head.

“Definitely not,” he lies, wrapping his arms around Filippo’s shoulders and falling into the warmth of his body as he kisses him. Definitely not.


End file.
